


Ne Plus Ultra

by pizarnik



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dictatorship, F/M, Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Repression, Thriller, Torture, Trust Issues, Widowed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8212129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizarnik/pseuds/pizarnik
Summary: In a fledgling democracy, jaded homicide detective Levi Ackerman is sent to rural deserted Shiganshina to look into the disappearance of three teenage girls. Eren Jaeger, a novice, is tasked with assisting him. Soon enough, secrets and family connections begin to muddle the course of an investigation that will take them to the very bottom of human nature.This is the story of a love stunted by depravity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work of fiction draws *heavily* from a series of suspicious real life murders and disappearances that took place in eastern Spain during the 80s and 90s, the conspiracy theories that have been going around ever since, as well as a recent film that seems to also have taken lots of inspiration from these events. There is definitely a True Detective vibe to this as well.
> 
> I also use historical elements from Spain’s fascist past and its botched-up democratic transition, and Germanic elements. Assume this fic to be set in a European country.
> 
> This is also my first fic ever, it is unbetaed, and English is not my mother tongue.

**Levi’s POV**

I don’t need an alarm clock to wake up.  
  
The Sun could drop from the sky, Earth shrouded in darkness forever, and I’d still wake up at the same goddamned time, each morning further away from that one sweet period of my life, that keeps diluting from memory the same way my childhood did.  
  
Today is November 15th, a lazy Sunday and the dawn is so crisp it nearly hurts my eyes. Not a single cloud in the sky, the light flooding the whole city view from my window, but everything seems painted on with an icy patina.  
  
I never get up immediately. I like studying my surroundings, unchanging as they are.  
  
I feel as if someone spent the night beating me up and I should probably blame my mattress, but I don’t plan on ditching the damn thing anytime soon.  
  
I stretch my whole self and there’s a coordinated response of cracking joints, bones realigning. It’s oddly satisfying. As a general rule -with a very, very honourable single exception- everything bodily repulses me.  
  
Sweating and pissing and crying and feeling the mechanisms of the body under the skin, it all screams of perishable goods.  
  
Things that don’t die don’t need to take a shit.  
  
It makes everything about life so utterly undignified… It sure is enlightening though: the purpose of mankind is generating waste.  
  
I was once very much attuned with my own perishability, then I wasn’t, then I was again. I now just swim in this ether. Neither life nor death satisfy me. Neither of them are what they used to be.

I’m almost thankful that the ringing of the phone breaks me out of such self-pitying reverie, but it bites me in the ass when I look at the caller ID:

ERWIN OFFICE

 I let it drag on, basically to drive him nuts -what makes it best is that I know he knows- before picking up.

“Haven’t you got a life, Smith?”

“Your presence is required here immediately.”

“Why?”  
  
“There’s b-“  
  
“Wait, don’t tell me, I’ll just use my prowess in deductive guesswork: you entered the restroom stall last Friday evening and are still trying to take a dump and, somehow, my motivational skills are needed.”  
  
“You know as well as I do that demotivation is where your real talent lies.”  
  
“Do I demotivate you, Erwin? I’m flattered.”  
  
“Why exactly I picked you over Mike, I won’t ever be able to tell…”  
  
“I’m still getting high on the fact that I can demotivate a driven bastard like you.” A jaded snort reverberates from the other end of the line. “Now that I think of it, the fact that you’ve managed to bring your wired phone into the stall makes me a little suspicious of your intentions.”  
  
“Please spare me the curse of your delightful morning persona and bear with me a little. I haven’t left here since Friday.”  
  
“Eureka!”  
  
“Please.”  
  
I almost pity him. If I’m hard on my relentless strategist of a boss, that’s saying something.  
  
“Right, so what’s come up that has your knickers all in a twist?”  
  
“I’ll tell you in person. Just pack a suitcase and move your ass here.”  
  
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Erwin, but I’m married to my job.”  
  
“Find some mercy in your heart, Ackerman”.  
  
“How many days?”  
  
“I don’t know, a week, maybe.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
_Click.  
_  
Forget pity. I can’t stand the pompous ass.  
  
I look around the room past sandy, gritty corneas. Sometimes the emptiness of the room makes for an unpleasant sight, but I can’t really be bothered with aesthetic complications or their upkeep. The whole house has fallen under the same curse. Cleaning is the absolute worst problem but the inability of keeping the whole fucking place clean and proper irks me just as much as having someone nosing around.  
  
It’s too much for one person, but they’ll only have me leave here dragging, kicking and screaming.  
  
I rub my eyes onto the heels of my hands, hunched over my crossed legs. I feel my shoulders quiver and I take a short, deep breath, breath out long, laboured. It’s like my muscles are closed tight into an alert position and the moment they so much as move an inch, they lose all strength.  
  
My whole body is on the verge of giving up on me, which is unsurprising given how badly I treat it.  
  
So I can’t exercise today, either. Erwin’s daily demands and overtime are doing no favours to my sex appeal. I drag my sorry ass into the shower and go about my OCD-like practices with calculated passion. Yes, there is a specific, most time-effective and hygienic order to have a shower. No, I’m not fucking sharing.  
  
I more or less devised a system to brainlessly achieve those things I once actually put my head to. Life takes care of itself and we don’t mingle. Makes for the minimum undesired friction. When you’re like me, you’re bound to kill yourself with agony sooner or later. We don’t want that, as there are too many idiots depending on me, bless their souls.  
  
Memories are a nuisance. I could never go by ‘lively’ or ‘spirited’, but damn, I was a downright classy guy. That’s the kind of silly, useless rumination I partake in as I look into the wardrobe, perfectly designed as to allow any two items to fit together in a somewhat formal manner, just enough not to look like the clowns I’m so lucky to work with.  
  
I open my suitcase on the bed and I get images of times long past when I used to fill it with cheap sundresses and an array of mismatched socks. I blink them away. It’s not the same suitcase anyway, nor the same clothes. I make sure not to forget a raincoat (it’s high season), walking shoes, and earplugs. Toiletry bag. Pain killers. Flashlight. Camera, memory cards, writing stuff.  
  
I unplug the few contraptions I can, turn off the heating, empty all trash cans. Being Erwin the impatient fucker he is, I reckon I’ll crash after at Mike’s for the time being, strike his fridge for some breakfast and charge my phone.  
  
I get into my car and drive to the CPD, not a single vehicle on the street as the city sleeps in.  
 

* * *

  
“Good things come to those who wait.”  
  
Erwin takes off his glasses, sitting behind his desk, and stares at me with cloudy eyes, says nothing. The bastard’s studying me and I am well acquainted with his schemes.  
  
Patience. Only thing I didn’t pack.  
  
“May I know why I’m standing in your office on a fucking Sunday morning?”  
  
I can actually see the cogs in his brain resettle as he moves onto defensive offence.  
  
“Three girls disappeared last Friday night.”  
  
I’m not following.  
  
“… Okay.”  
  
“And I need you to look into it.”  
  
“Be kindly reminded, I solve homicides. Call back when they wind up dead.”  
  
They probably will anyway.  
  
“I’d very much prefer not to see that development.”  
  
Oh. _Now_ I follow.  
  
“Me, I’d very much prefer not to look for three nobodies whose parents think they have connections because they used to be someone before this country’s vermin was put to the knife.”  
  
He’s smart enough to recognise I’m not endowed with powers of precognition. It’s just glaringly obvious. He’s been here, glued to the phone, abandoned to our time-honoured, good old tradition of sycophancy, for two days straight. Still, he schools his features into a hard mask of authority. God, I want to bash his face in whenever he does that. He’s been doing that a lot in recent times.  
  
“It’s not your decision to make. These girls better show up. I can send no less than my best man.”  
  
“You know as well as I do that if whoever’s behind this doesn’t want them to show up, they won’t. And if they’re stupid enough to be caught, sending me is probably overkill. Send Mike. He’s a people person, and you’re going to need that.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sending a people person to be your assistant.”  
  
I’m actually phantasizing about beating that condescension right out of him. And this is my second best friend in the entire world. That’s some shitty support network right there.  
  
“Not Mike?”  
  
“Not Mike, no. He’ll be taking over for you here, in fact.”  
  
“You’re edging towards insanity. It’s high time.”  
  
“Levi…”  
  
“Mike’s the only one who can handle me. And he’s a _people_ person.”  
  
“It’s about time you learnt to work with somebody else. You’ve been working with Mike for thirteen years already.”  
  
“And for good reason.”  
  
“It’s non-negotiable.”  
  
I gape at the absurdity of that. With my position, this is unheard of.  
  
“Alright, forget about the assistant. It’s not even relevant. It’s not a case for me. Simple as that. It’s not up my street. You sending a homicide detective for a disappearance, now how’s that going to look?”  
  
“Levi, there’s no discussing this.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, there fucking is. Don’t act like it’s not in your hand to…”  
  
I catch myself as I see the slightest twitch of his brow.  
  
“Levi…”  
  
“Where have these girls vanished?”  
  
“Shiganshina.”  
  
A.K.A. the Buttcrack of this Stinking Country.  
  
That’s very funny, only it’s not. I try hard to suspend my disbelief.  
  
“Levi, listen…”  
  
“Am I grounded, Erwin?”  
  
“Consider this the alternative to disciplinary action. The sooner you can get this over and done with, the sooner we can move on.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Smith. This is not about righting a misdeed. It’s not even about getting me out of their hair for a while. It’s what this means that he’s after. He wants me licking his boot.”  
  
Not that he doesn’t know that. Not that he can actually do anything about it. But this submission is sickening.  
  
“You could have thought of that before you kindly expressed your opinion of him last meeting.”  
  
I can tell my amusement frightens him somewhat as I lean over the desk and try to steel my composure, my voice.  
  
“Darius Zackly is a fascist rat who was smart enough to jump ship before all the other rodents. I’d go so far as saying I gave him no more than his due measure of respect.”  
  
“You’ve got a personal vendetta against him.”  
  
“So does everyone in this country. We all know someone or other who took a mysterious fall from one of the balconies of this very building.”  
  
“You’re letting your hate get in the way of actual, attainable change.”  
  
“Don’t give me that shit. Who the fuck is assisting me anyway? Did anyone with a modicum of authority choose him?”  
  
I don’t fucking care about being hurtful anymore. I’m positively hurt, he can go fuck himself with a knife.  
  
“I chose him.”  
  
Erwin’s reluctant to speak. This I’m not going to like.  
  
“… Well?”  
  
“He’s a newly appointed homicide detective.”  
  
“A rookie. You give me a rookie. You were supposed to help me, not give me a dead weight.”  
  
“He’s a very sweet kid, and very talented.”  
  
For some reason, the words ‘sweet kid’ in Erwin’s mouth sound deeply disturbing.  
  
“Right. Does this _sweet_ kid happen to have a name?”  
  
“Eren Jaeger.”  
  
My blood freezes as soon as words are registered. I know my lips are moving but I can’t utter any words. The buzz in my ears drowns all other sounds.  
  
“Jaeger… as in Grisha Jaeger.”  
  
“Grisha’s son, yes.”  
  
I’ve actually seen the kid around. Entered the division not six months ago, always at the tail of his horse-faced partner. Does menial work but I don’t pity him. To me there’s little doubt that he’s been placed there by way of social influence. It’s a real shame ‘cause he’s got a rear end to die for. A relieving sight when I can’t seem to face the child on the rare occasions we cross ways. Makes me sick to my stomach but as long as I don’t have to interact, there’s no use in losing breath on him.  
  
These aren’t the old times. As long as he doesn’t interfere with my operations, I’m fine.  
  
Working with him was not something within the realm of possibility until a minute ago, though. And it’s not something I want to go through. No way. That I can’t conceive.  
  
“Erwin, how can a Jaeger even be admitted into the police?”  
  
I need to stop shaking right this second.  
  
“There’s no credible proof… of those events, and the kid is not to blame for his father’s actions.”  
  
I beg to differ. I’m as much of a proof as there can be. The remorse in his eyes speaks for itself.  
  
“There can’t be when all records have been burnt. Which I highly doubt, anyway. There are copies. There were always copies. Everything written down, addenda to every report, back-ups down to the very last letter. You were there with me, you remember. Swarm my uncle’s house for all I care. Bring down the walls, search through the nooks and crannies in the cellar.”  
  
This is getting more and more ridiculous by the minute.  
  
“Levi, I can assure you, I can vouch for h-“  
  
“No, no. You’re despatching a fucking Jaeger to report on me to you. Like father, like son. You couldn’t dream of anyone more adept, could you?”  
  
“Why would I do that? Levi, why would I do that to you? You’re like a son to me.”  
  
“‘Cause you need to keep Zackly informed of how well his newly tamed pet is behaving. And because things are essentially same as they always were. These people, they’re all friends, you know it as well as I do. They’re running it all behind this front of democracy. The only difference is now they have to cover it up and be ever-so-careful, which is not a lot. Well I’m not doing it, it’s not fucking happening.”  
  
“There is no way around this, Levi. And the girls are more innocent than you or me. You can either take on the case or leave the force.”  
  
“When have I ever been unable of turning down a case?!”  
  
“They’re adamant. As far as we’re all concerned, this is what’s happening. If you don’t, you’re out. They’ll bring you down, you know they can.”  
  
Well, that’s not a possibility. I quit, my influence and connections so much as disappear. So do the odds of ever finishing the job. I’ve got nothing else. I do that, my life is over.  
  
“Please don’t do this to me.”  
  
“I’ve tried. I swear.”  
  
“The least you can do… is to look me in the eye and tell me if someone’s behind that decision, other than you. About Jaeger.”  
  
He fixes his gaze.  
  
“I don’t want to send you there. And it is true that you’re an itch to the higher ups that they are constantly trying to scratch. I want you in the force. I’m making the best of the situation. Sending you out there… is them. Putting Jaeger on the case, that’s all me.”  
  
Must be hard, living in that brain of his.  
  
“… I’m not sure I want to know the logic behind this, Smith.”  
  
“Whatever you need to know, I’ll tell you in due time.”  
  
“Are you playing on them with this?”  
  
He holds my gaze, and I nod.  
  
“Are you playing on him?”  
  
“I hope not.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow.  
  
“… Is it part of my job? Should we… make him part of my assignment? Employ my old-time abilities?”  
  
“You should be done with the case long before that.”  
  
“So Jaeger is pure cosmetics at the time. It better not backfire.”  
  
“It won’t backfire.”  
  
I start biting at my fingers as I nod again, looking down.  
  
I see movement on my peripheral vision and the next thing I know, he’s placed both hands on my shoulders. Uh-oh.  
  
“Levi, look at me.” I barely comply. “You can handle this.”  
  
“… Yeah.”  
  
I’ll work on handling this once I remember how to properly breathe again.  
  
“I’m not lying when I tell you my best man for the job is you. There is unbearable pressure. This is hitting the news no later than tomorrow morning. I want this done fast and clean. I need you on this.”  
  
I can’t tell if there’ll ever be a time when I’ll stop inadvertently giving ammunition to those keen on fucking me over. Must be my ‘congenital defect’, as they used to phrase it.  
  
Emotional constipation must show on my face because Erwin gives me this strange look and says:  
  
“Are you taking care of yourself?”  
  
I’d say Erwin is like a father to me, but I’d be lying.  
  
He’s more like my granny.  
  
Unfortunately for him, I’m the absolute epitome of noncommittal behaviour.  
  
“Reasonably, yeah.” I say with a shrug.  
  
“I get these are difficult days. If you need anything…” I laugh against my better judgement. “I’m serious. Give me a call-up whenever necessary. No matter the time.”  
  
“You are aware that is going to come bite you in the ass, right?”  
  
“You’re not one to pull phone pranks.”  
  
I _can_ be.  
  
The atmosphere is getting almost comfortable and I can’t have that. I’m still pissed. My heart keeps on trying to jump out of my throat. I take a big breath, study the ceiling.  
  
“So how are we supposed to proceed?”  
  
“We’ll go through the file and you’ll pick up Jaeger in Trost at 12 PM.”  
  
“Fine by me” I reply as I take a seat, setting about the job. Endurance is a nagging bitch.  
  
He goggles at me from behind the desk.  
  
“You need to be more cautious, Levi.”  
  
I bristle a bit at that.  
  
“I got it, Erwin. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”  
  
So much so, I’m grinding my lower lip.  
  
It’s a white lie, if anything. He’s looking increasingly morose and his eyes won’t leave mine, trying to get a point across. I’m up to the challenge, unwilling to give up power.  
  
“People outside these walls may think they know you. They don’t, no matter how much they’ve seen, heard, and read. We, on the other hand, do know you. In light of previous events, your words amount to death threats.”  
  
“Good. We’re on even ground, then.”  
  
“If I were you, I’d tread very, very lightly. When governmental retaliation reaches its full scope, it may take you down as well. Past deeds are not canceled out by new ones.”  
  
If this wasn’t Erwin, I’d think he’s trying to intimidate me.

* * *

   
The Central Police Department is located in the middle of Mariasviertel, what used to be the court. My best friend, he lives five minutes by foot from the CPD, five minutes by foot from my flat, basically because he’s a lazy fuck, a workaholic piece of shit and likes to think of himself as my nanny.  
  
I enter with my own key, go straight into his bedroom and attack him with his own shoes.  
  
He jumps up from fast sleep as if attacked by a black-haired, Jewish fiend -no idea who that might be. Deigns not to look at me, works his tongue at some morning honesty.  
  
“You sick, sick fuck.”  
  
“Get up, I need to vent.”  
  
“I could have brought a girl over.”  
  
“You hadn’t wrapped your ducky-duck tie around the doorknob, so, no. Up you get.”  
  
I go straight into the open plan kitchen, raise my voice so it reaches my sleepy friend back in the bedroom.  
  
“You better not have got all crap out of the way by stuffing all drawers this once, like you do every single time.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“And I, you.”  
  
I start roaming the cupboards looking for the single one non-stick pan in the house -which I bought-, trying my best not to cringe at the worrisome amount of breadcrumbs littering the counter.  
  
“Well hello, handsome.”  
  
I turn around to look at an ash-blonde manchild who can barely fit inside the threshold of the door to the living room, wearing nothing but a garish bottle-green pair of shorts, his wild body hair lining his legs like a proud, bear-like Adonis.  
  
That just reminds me, I am yet to drink a drop of alcohol today.  
  
I throw a cloth as a missile, aiming for his face. On target, as usual. I watch him move like an oversized, spasmodic mammal.  
  
“Fix this mess and I promise I’ll feed you to the best of my ability.”  
  
While heating up the oil, I absentmindedly look at Mike’s living room, which I usually think of as the Museum of Mismatch, an interior designer’s worst dream. My sight half-heartedly travels over the incongruous distribution of trinkets, furniture borrowed from the street, quilts that must have seen three generations already, and absurdly dissimilar picture frames.  
  
My eyes settle on the patchwork cushions. We made those, more than fifteen years ago. Sentimental fuck.  
  
I can’t help but ask as I go about my business.  
  
“Why does your flat consistently look like a granny’s?”  
  
That’s my way of saying: _I love you. I appreciate your company. You got quirky sense of style.  
_  
“I’m a granny at heart.”  
  
“You’re far too horny for a granny. Your sex drive doesn’t belong with that of the elderly.”  
  
I pick a bottle of beer from the fridge, set breakfast on the table, sit down as Mike looks at me over the table with a withering eye.  
  
I shrug.  
  
“Eggs for you, eggs for me.”  
  
“How is it that you cook for me the way you used to for yourself, yet nowadays you just crash an egg into a pan and call it a day?”  
  
“It just gets me from point A to point B. But you care about those things.”  
  
“And beer.”  
  
“Mellows the edge off and-“  
  
“You wanted to vent.”  
  
Ooohh. There it is. The whole martyr act.  
  
Only it’s not an act, is it? I’ve always brought him into martyrdom, ever since.  
  
Boy, do I vent. I even use expletives I usually set aside for very special days. His face freezes into a mask of mild horror when I bring the Jaeger kid into the picture.  
  
“I’m not sure Erwin knows what he’s doing with this.”  
  
“As usual, he’s got a plan.”  
  
“Well I’m not sure about his plan.”  
  
“Neither am I. Imagine the brat shares his father’s talents and-“  
  
I clam up so hard, the clash of my teeth reverberates through the room.  
  
Fuck. Beer isn’t going to cut it.  
  
“Shall I break out something stronger?”  
  
“You won’t find something stronger. I can’t have something stronger when expecting you to come over as you deem fit.”  
  
“It’s okay, I can work with quantity when lacking quality.”  
  
It’s not even 11AM and he’s already tired of me. Means I’m getting better at getting worse. Should cut back a bit, sustain the status quo.  
  
I get up, work out my frayed nerves, look out the window in the balcony.  
  
The pure, neat panels at the back of the CPD (new times come with renovation works in bureaucratic structures) look down on the grandiose main avenue, and I follow the movements of the green wisps dangling from each post, street sign and stoplight. 300 meters ahead, the ruins of a vandalised triumphal arc are preserved behind a glass fence, for future generations to see.  
  
Mike makes to light a cigarette.  
  
“Don’t. You’ll stink up the whole place.”  
  
My companion stands up with a sigh and walks to the window.  
  
“So join me” he says as he opens it wide, lights his cancer stick and indulges in it for a couple puffs before he speaks again. “Five days for the five-year mark”.  
  
I lean on the dirty railing, trying to contain my disgust and turning my back on the preparations for the upcoming feast, grateful for the freezing wind hitting my nape, because I’m feeling anything but clear-headed right now.  
  
It must show on my face, because Mike wordlessly offers his cigarette and I take it without a second thought, my fingers trembling in trepidation.  
  
_Shit_. I need to exert some self-control, but filling my organism with a mildly stimulating, highly damaging substance is as good as it gets right now.  
  
I’ll make up for this later somehow, or maybe not.  
  
“What do you remember of those last months?” he says as he lights a new one for himself.  
  
I stretch my neck as I feel tension building up again and I try to rub the weariness off my eyes, but it seems to have spread through my whole body.  
  
“Little more than a very irate, very focused blur.”  
  
Mike looks sideways at me, pointedly, as if he knew better.  
  
Why wouldn’t he? He was there.  
  
From the corner of my eye, green oscillates. As if on cue, Mike opens his mouth again:  
  
“So why this colour? Who chose it?”  
  
“If you wanted your opinion heard, you’re too late.”  
  
“I just don’t see any national correlation between green and whatever it is this country has become.”  
  
“Which colour would you rather have it be? Red? Blue? _Black?_ ”  
  
“Is there a place where totalitarian regimes go get their clothes?”  
  
“Neat lines and tailored fittings, I like that.”  
  
“Ours had golden accents.”  
  
“You mean the gala ones.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“I despise it. It’s the colour of gilded illness, like yellow shat on with glitter. In fact, the whole regime was like that: a vast expanse of putridness sprinkled on with spangles meant to divert attention.”  
  
“Feeling a bit poetic, are we?”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”  
  
There’s an almost comfortable moment of silence before he speaks again.  
  
“… Green is supposed to stand for hope.”  
  
“Green is the colour of envy, uranium and mould on meat.”  
  
“And this democracy, above all.”  
  
I can’t help but laugh.  
  
“It’s just colours, Mike. Leave them out of the issue.”  
  
After barely a minute of compliance, he proceeds by completely ignoring me:  
  
“Anyway, why this shade? Couldn’t they have picked a more neon-like hue of green? We missed on the opportunity of running around naked and carrying glow sticks each time November 20th came around.”  
  
I must admit I find the workings of Mike’s brain both puzzling and endearing.  
  
My gaze travels over the endless instances of the hue, suppressing the undercurrent of memories.  
  
“… It’s the colour of mallow leaves.”  
  
He sends a new knowing glance my way, and I resist the urge to pull a face. I’m just fucking surrounded by part-time psychologists and it gets a little too much after a while.

* * *

   
Sometimes I take a moment to think of all the different little ways I betray her everyday.  
  
I smoke now and then.  
  
I drink black tea until I start moving about with the purposeless energy of a toddler.  
  
I don’t get half the shut-eye that I need.  
  
I sleep around, though I haven’t delved into a woman with my mouth ever since.  
  
I’m still a functioning alcoholic.


End file.
